Had they not been named after the two sisters in the teleplay maybe things would not have turned out quite like this. But the year was 1985 and their mother, along with the rest of the Urdu speaking world, had been gripped by Haseena Moin’s drama on PTV. When her first girl was born, a month after the serial’s finale, it seemed only natural that she would name her Zara, after the elder. Two years later, expecting again, Ammi sat on a janamaz, tasbih in her wrist and asked for a second girl and this time too Khuda heard her prayer and she got her Sanya.

At first it was not possible to tell but by the time they were eight and six, it was plain for everyone to see. Zara and Sanya had grown, in persona, too much like the fictional girls they shared their names with, the older, quiet and austere, the younger, a beating heart and were it not for their black wavy hair, straight noses and proud chins no one would ever have even thought them sisters.

And Sanya pondered precisely this as they got on the plane, as she let Zara slide in for the window seat, how their dispositions lay so decidedly on the opposite ends of the spectrum. Temperaments, on a scale, she believed, ranged from cold to hot and this was the way it was with them. In Zara’s pensive gaze Sanya found there that crust of defiant obstinance that had become the very nucleus of her spirit. It was a truth to be contended with; her Apa was a placid winter lake, her feelings encased under a thin sheet of ice. Even when they were young girls, Zara moved with clinical precision, cutting the cadavers of her private demons without ever flinching, always looking them straight in the eye, always saying I will conquer you. She was frightened of the chipkalis that crawled up the walls of their grandmother’s home but expressed only unease being always braver than she needed to be and growing up, there was never on her visage a furrowed brow or a clenched jaw. The little flames – those licks of rage and euphoria, passion and sadness that compel one to reveal exactly what one feels – must have resided within Zara in childhood but since they were never given a chance to consume her, they had become over time dormant and mute. And now that they were women in their prime, Sanya looked at Zara and saw an aura where there was no conflict, no tempest, only a resolution to always do the thing that needed to be done and that too in silence.

So how fitting this malady of the voice. The doctor had said Zara wasn’t to speak for at least four days after the surgery, perhaps even a little longer, using only a pen on paper for any communication. Sanya smiled covertly, thinking that after all these years Zara Apa had finally gotten her wish. She would talk to no one and no one would bother her with silly questions. And to make sure she got her peace, they were heading to the Skardu Valley, to the Shangrila Resort, far from Lahore, far from the throng, the elite culture society begums and mian sahibs, mehfils and dawatein all of which Zara openly despised anyway. It was clear that a lot depended on Zara getting her voice back as only then would she be able to sing again. And she had to sing again. The world was waiting for it. The shayari was ready, as was the music.

Though her true age was not known to the masses, Zara, now at forty, was still young as far as the tradition of ghazal was concerned. In fact, many would argue that she was just getting started. In the coming years, her voice would deepen further and time would bring into it the mystique, misery and dard that a ghazal singer of class needed in order for the words to ring true. In their shayari, Urdu poets spoke not of loneliness but lonelinesses – tanhaiyaan, and Sanya understood that all that Zara had hid from people, from family, friends, from Sanya herself, all that she could not say in words, Zara’s own solitudes, were fast becoming the very fabric of her voice. Sometimes it sounded to Sanya like timorous silk, sometimes like sure velvet – it had peaks, it had valleys – and Zara had come to it too, like everything else, out of necessity.

At fifteen, Zara had been plucked out, by chance, to sing ‘Jeevay Jeevay’ for the school’s Yaum-i-Azadi function, and just a week later Ustad Vali came knocking. It didn’t take much to convince Ammi and Abbu and in four days Zara started her training. A year later, when Abbu succumbed to his long standing battle with tuberculosis, Ustad Vali encouraged Ammi to let Zara keep on singing. The words he used were subtle, but Ammi understood their meaning: let the girl make some money from this gift. And so, Ammi let Zara meet with the music directors and heads of the national radio network. They proposed a new name, Shaukat Hasin, something that would have gravitas and lend Zara some weight for she was still such a strip of girl and in a year she was on TV, singing in silk or chiffon saris, with lipstick and her thick black hair swept up, looking older than her years, earning for her mother and sister more money than they could have ever imagined. The first album – with poetry from the usual suspects; Faiz, Ghalib, Iqbal – did remarkably well for a newcomer, yet Zara declined to venture onto any other paths that came with the sudden stardom and fame. She gave no interviews and rarely attended parties. No new persona was crafted for the public; it saw only what those who had known Zara for years had always seen: a beautiful young woman who spoke little, if at all.

As the plane took off, Sanya looped her arm in Zara’s and threaded their fingers together. The flight was short, a mere sixty-four minutes but the views of Gilgit-Baltistan, they already knew, would be breathtaking. Sanya had written out, by hand, all that they could expect to witness during the flight. First Kaghan Valley, then peaks from three different ranges; Nanga Parbat of the Himalayas, Trich Mir from the Hindukush and then the second highest peak in the world, the killer mountain, K2 of the Karakoram. Their country was humble and lacking in much but there was no shortage of sights to view the sublime. Sanya opened out the folding table and placed the notebook and pen on top. I’m excited Apa, she said whispering into Zara’s ear and Zara took the pen and wrote, As am I. Yet, on Zara’s face, Sanya detected a thread of fatigue, a kind of lassitude in the eyes. She was about to presume that it must be the pain in her throat but then reminded herself that she had grown up watching this development closely, that she had always knocked at the door of Zara’s emotive constituents and rarely received an answer. As a child Sanya could see no use in the possession of the stone mask Zara wore because she herself had never donned one even for a day. By the time she was fourteen, Sanya had already come to the conclusion that where her sister was carved of marble, she herself was a being of fire, finding herself raging, weeping, and wearing her infatuations like a cloak—the inside always facing outward, letting the world know and feel the full depth and breadth of her passions. Even then, she had complete knowledge of the facts. Yes, this exposure made her vulnerable, but was an existence without full expression not itself an artifice? As a young woman, Sanya loved to play, to tease, to run and hide because she saw life itself as a kind of a jest, a game with no clear rules where the only terms to adhere to were those of making fun and delight. Boys in the colony penned her poems, saying that her smile had the variety of seasons, her laughter the limitless permutations of musical keys. To live any other way then seemed to her a completely unreasonable proposition and she always used to stare at her older sister who was, in essence, so opaque. She used to yell at Zara to provoke a response of feeling, irritate her with jokes and giggles but all she ever received in return was a weary request to be more sensible. And so now sensible she was. She would have to be on this trip, when Zara was in so much pain and unable to speak at all.

*

As the clear blue sky filled with the peaks of the Karakoram, immense, almost unreal stone mountain tops dusted with snow, Zara finally began to take an interest. Gone was the weariness in the eyes, the droop of her shoulders. She sat upright and pointed at K2, her finger gently pressed against the glass, her lips in an o of awe and amazement. She picked up the pen and started writing fast. I didn’t imagine it would be like this. So vast, so tremendous.

Ji Apa, said Sanya. Kuch toh hai, jo aapko bhi impress kar sake. Chalein K2 hi sahi.

HA HA, Zara wrote in all capital letters.

*

Nestled serenely in a lush green valley the resort Shangrila was the epitome of tranquility itself. It was exactly what Sanya had hoped for. Red roofed chalets and cottages surrounded a small pristine blue lake, picturesque gardens with fruit bearing trees and ample rose bushes dripping with scent, voluptuous in their coy yet profuse beauty. The other guests were mostly couples and European climbers who always turned up to dinner with their faces red from the harsh sun, an unremitting and brilliant white bearing down on the valley and turning its natural hues into something like technicolor. Zara, sitting in the garden or on the porch, went largely unrecognized on account of her sunglasses but once or twice, in the dining room, a head did turn in her direction. It was at breakfast, on the third day, that someone finally mustered the courage to approach them. A middle aged man, slim and tall, wearing smart pants and a navy sweater over his white button up shirt. He brought a writing pad and a pen and quite unabashedly, asked for Zara’s autograph. Assalamualaikum Shaukat Begum, I saw you yesterday, he said with a half smile. So this time I came prepared. I can see you’re on holiday but if you could oblige, it would mean a lot. It’s for my daughter, she’s a fan. Her name is Amna. She wants to be a singer too.

Sanya, with some discretion, eyed him slowly. Youthful facets still shaped his face, his shoulders were pulled back, long thin fingers, nails neat and short. He was an elegant man, possibly at the resort with an equally elegant wife, though of her existence, Sanya was yet to find some evidence. She said quickly, Inki surgery hoi hai so she can’t speak.

The smile fell from the man’s lips. Theek toh ho jayein gi?

Ji ji. In a few days.

Will you sing again? He addressed his question directly to Zara and she nodded. She took the pen from his hand and wrote the girl Amna a line from Faiz, ‘Na gul naghma hun na parda saaz,’ then inked her flamboyant star name underneath, Shaukat Hasin. The man looked down at the curving, looping signature.

We heard that your real name is something else. Is that true?

Zara wrote her own name under the signature.

He smiled and took the notepad and pen. Bahaut shukriya. I won’t disturb you again. With that, he returned to his breakfast table at the other end of the dining hall.

So what do you think Apa? said Sanya, nudging her own notebook and pen towards Zara’s hands. Inki koi beti bhi hai, ya phir…

What are you getting at? Zara scribbled.

Maybe he just wanted the autograph for himself.

Come on.

Aur koi missus bhi nahin nazar areen. Toh beti kahan se aagayee?

You’re ridiculous. Bas.

If he’s here for dinner tonight we should ask him to join us.

Please don’t.

Apa, you don’t know how to have fun. He’s obviously an admirer. Aur dekhne main bhi achhe hain.

Bas karo Sanya.

Sanya leaned back in her seat. She was used to this too. Her sister’s cold aloofness towards men. She herself had been divorced twice but Zara had yet to trust a man with her time. When they were younger Zara said it was because she was busy but with the years Sanya had come to understand the remoteness for what it truly was. Self preservation.

She glanced over at the man and wondered what he was doing here alone, if he was indeed alone. He had turned over the page of his notepad and was writing feverishly. Something about him seemed out of place. He didn’t appear like another tourist, his sartorial choices proved this much at least and he had neither a sunburn nor the tiredness which would follow the daily hikes and excursions. If he wasn’t here for the sights, what was he here for? As always, her curiosity about other people knew no limits and she made it a point after breakfast, when Zara returned to the porch to read her novel, to walk over the entire breadth of the estate till she found him. And she did find him. Outside one of the small modest cottages. Smoking a cigarette and still writing in his notepad. She waved at him. Bhaisahib, you were writing at breakfast too. Are you working on a book?

Actually I am.

A novel?

Ji.

About?

A young woman. It’s set right after Partition.

Tell me more.

She receives a proposal and must decide whether to keep her independence and live within very limited means or accept the proposal and give up her freedom.

Can’t she do both?

She can but she doesn’t know it.

May I? Sanya pointed at a chair. She knew she was being intrusive and if Zara was here she would have tugged her away but the man, the writer, seemed to invite, quite freely, her trespass. She made her assessment as she sat down. He’s lonely.

Have you written other things?

No, this is my first attempt.

It must be difficult.

It is, the man said, crossing one leg over the other, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray. I make notes during the day and at night, when everything goes quiet I try to write. Without feeling too daunted. But every new thing is this way, correct?

I suppose. Why did you decide to write?

A strained expression ran across his face. He crossed his arms, indicating as if he was himself unsure about the answer to her question. To Sanya, he looked like someone who failed to belong – not just to a place or a role, but to the whole rhythm of the world around him.

I lost my wife last year, he said, glancing away. She knew I always wanted to write but I never had the courage. When she realized she had little time, she made me promise that I’d do it after she left. So here I am. To think and reflect and do the best I can. I’ll come every summer and try to work on it.

He looked back at Sanya and added, It’s for her.

So he is not out of place; he is just missing a part of himself, a vital one, thought Sanya feeling that sudden warm flush of knowing something about someone too soon. Her heart started to race and her eyes roamed the scenic view ahead because she didn’t want to seem like she was prying. And what more was there possibly to learn? She imagined the wife, tall and nice to look at. The type to wear silk saris to weddings. And there was a daughter too, a fledgling singer. Where was she now? How old was she? Was she at this very minute sitting by some window listening to one of Zara’s CDs. He’d said she was a fan.

Sanya took out her own cigarette and lit up and they sat in silence for an entire minute as the specters of her smoke swirled between them.

I think it’s very brave, she said, finally piercing the quietness.

I don’t know about bravery. There’s definitely a kind of vanity.

So you think all great writers are vain?

To some degree.

But we must grant it, no? The indulgence. Because without it there would be no art.

Allowances must be made for some types of bad behavior. As long as the artist does not get too boorish.

Sanya raised an eyebrow and the man smiled. Mazaak kara hun, I’m being flippant, he said. No, no, I am much more in favor of humility and anonymity. It serves all this quite well. Solitude too is necessary.

Sanya felt as if he was alluding to her sister. Zara may have shied away from the magazine interviews but much was still written about her, how reclusive she was, how flighty and mysterious.

Will you try to get this published? Sanya said, peeking at the notebook still in the man’s hands.

My wife said nothing about that. I’d be grateful if even one person would read it.

Would you like to have dinner with me and Apa this evening? Sanya asked.

The man nodded.

As she got up and turned to leave, she pressed the side of her hand to her chest. Sanya Begum, she said.

Jalil, said the man.

*

I can’t believe you, Zara wrote on the notepad in her room, her face pinched with annoyance.

Please Apa. He eats alone. You know I can’t bear the sight of anyone eating alone in public. It’s so sad.

I know what you’re doing, Zara scribbled feverishly.

What am I doing?

Zara gripped Sanya by the wrist. Sanya did not need to hear her words.

It’s just dinner. Also, I wouldn’t set you up with a man who just lost his wife. We don’t want her ghost on our back.

I’m serious.

So am I. About the ghost that is, said Sania. Peeche par gayi toh? We’d be in trouble. Anyways, what are you going to wear?

Zara started to scribble on the notepad. Sharp shapes and curly lines that turned into a dark wretched mess.

I think you should wear the green one, that olive green suit, hai na? Sania darted to the wardrobe and pulled out the shalwar kameez.

Zara tore out the sheet, crushed it into a ball and hurled it at her sister. It bounced off Sanya’s head and fell limply between them. Sanya, taken aback by this display of rage, knew she had perhaps pushed too far.

Okay, fine, she said. You don’t have to come. I’ll go alone.

That wouldn’t be appropriate either, wrote Zara.

So you’ll come then?

Zara nodded.

And this suit? Sanya pulled out the chiffon dupatta and slipped it around Zara’s shoulders.

Zara nodded again. She held her throat with her left hand and scribbled some more. Just please don’t take anymore advantage of me when I’m like this, okay?

I won’t Apa! I promise, said Sanya, pressing her palm to her heart.

*

He was already at the table when the sisters arrived. Tailored pants, gray blazer, no tie. Jalil Sahib, Sanya called out as they made their way across the dining hall. He stood up, gave a little bow and Sanya detected in him a kind of nervousness that hadn’t been there in the afternoon. His eyes shifted until she looked into them with intent and said, without words, we are friends. He smiled, sat down. As usual, the hall was warmly lit and candles flickered in the center of tables. There was a large German group in the corner and a small party of French climbers. Sanya, without waiting, tried to break the ice and launched into a speech about the stars, how she’d never seen anything like this back in Karachi. How they cast their light on the peaks. And the deep indigo of the sky too, like the backdrop of a dream. You didn’t tell us where you’re from? she asked, finally bringing her monologue to a close. I can always guess but with you I’m not so sure. Karachi or Lahore?

Lahore but I haven’t lived there for decades, said Jalil. I live in Dubai.

I went once. Apa’s been there a few times, Sanya said looking over at her sister. Always comes back in a mood. Zara kicked her under the table.

You don’t like it? Jalil asked, turning to Zara.

Zara shook her head and reached for the pen. No, no. It’s just different.

It’s okay, it’s okay you’re in good company. Many people find it strange. Meri beti ko pasand hai. She has a certain type of lifestyle she wouldn’t be able to have in Lahore but some of her friends hate it, they think it isn’t a real city. My own feelings changed over time. I didn’t like it so much before but now I appreciate that it allows one a certain amount of political ambivalence. Anonymity too. One can disappear there entirely if one wishes.

As the flame of the candle danced between them, Sanya gathered much from even this slippery description of the city. On losing his wife, a forty-something man, and that too a tall, good-looking one, would be the subject of much gossip in Lahore. Of a certain kind of pity too. The kitty party begums would wait to see his next steps and regardless of his decisions there would be scrutiny and whispered tut-tuts. Dubai, with its international expats, glittering towers and nondescript surfaces would be the perfect place to hide. From what Sanya had observed during her past and only visit, the Pakistani social scene there was comparatively restrained. It was the political irresoluteness, however, that had bothered Zara. Her fans there were as they were at home, devoted and deeply loyal but they were comfortable, too comfortable, happy to have privileges in exchange for any kind of meaningful representation or public voice. The last time she’d returned from there, she’d spoken to Sanya about it all. Cultural endeavors, she’d said, untethered to a political reality seemed to her evasive in spirit and inauthentic. She had yet to decline an invitation to perform in the city but Sanya knew she went there expecting no surprises. Zara gave her recitals from a stage and remained as distant as ever when the organizers tried to coax her for dinners or receptions. The one time that Sanya had accompanied her, she’d nudged her to be more open to the city, to get to know its locales and people but Zara had stubbornly turned down the prospects of any excursions until Sanya gave up.

Aur aap kya kartein hain wahan pe? Sanya asked Jalil, glancing at him above the menu in hand.

I teach English at a university, he said. Language and literature.

How do you find the students?

The language courses are required so they are always fully subscribed but literature is an elective so the classes tend to be small.

Apa thinks because of the absence of an active political sphere, people are not so interested in the arts.

Once again Zara turned towards Sanya with a raised eyebrow.

You may be right, Jalil said, looking directly at Zara. But it will come, with time. Children who grow up there will want to tell their own stories.

Tell Apa about your novel Jalil Sahib.

There isn’t much to tell frankly. I’m at a fork in the road. He turned towards Zara. Your sister told you the premise?

Zara nodded.

It’s like this, the question I am faced with, that my protagonist is faced with, is should we always do the right thing, the thing that needs to be done?

Apa always does the thing that needs to be done, even when she doesn’t want to, said Sanya.

Zara shook her head.

It’s true Apa! You know it is!

I believe you, said Jalil. This dinner for instance. It was good of you to come. Civil, polite. Though if I am to believe anything that the magazines say about you, this is probably the last place you’d like to be.

Sanya choked on her sip of water, let out a laugh. It’s not like that, Jalil Sahib! She glanced over at her sister and saw her blush. Not like that at all!

We were talking about the book, wrote Zara quickly.

Tell me, Jalil says, Do you ever find that the right thing, the thing you resisted, reveals itself over time, as the thing you wanted to do anyway?

Of course, said Sanya. We don’t always know how circumstances will transform us.

In real life, this may very well be true  but in a novel it seems too convenient. Events and decisions transform us, yes, but they do not reshape our essence.

Sanya nodded. True, but —

— But we are permitted to be inconsistent, no? wrote Zara.

Indeed! We are, said Jalil.

And this is fiction.

Yes it is.

So make your character go through an evolution.

I see what you mean.

Do you want your protagonist to accept the proposal?

Yes.

And then spend the rest of the book reconciling with that decision?

Jalil shook his head. No, no, that would be a tortuous journey. No, I think you are right. She will have to change, in essence.

And I don’t think it’s lazy at all, said Sanya. You are simply opening a door for her to surprise you. We extend that courtesy in life too, don’t we? Sometimes. So why not in art?

Jalil nodded. Ji ji, zuroor.

What are you working on now?

There is a scene where she goes to a mehfil. To hear a notable ghazal singer perform. It’s from the singer’s point of view. The only time when that happens in the book, the rest is from the girl’s point of view. And the singer sees the girl and sings to her as if she knows what troubles her.

Jalil looked at Zara. Has that ever happened to you when you are singing? That you see a person in the audience and feel that they are there for an answer to a deeper question.

Sanya looked over at Zara. She had never thought to ask her this and was surprised to see her nod in agreement. She laid her hand on her wrist. Apa, when you are better, you have to tell me about it.

I would like to hear the story too, if that’s okay?

Zara smiled.

After the food arrived, they spoke little, yet every few minutes Sanya glanced at her sister and was pleased to see a verifiable contentment softening her cold persona.

They said goodnight to Jalil outside the dining hall. Sanya commented once again on the blanket of stars, the glowing green orb of the moon. Jalil remarked that they could now safely continue being strangers as he had no intention of trespassing on their holiday. Sanya shook her head, no no, that it wouldn’t, couldn’t now possibly be like that. He gave a little bow again and wished them good evening.

As they walked to their chalet, Sanya linked her arm with Zara’s and kissed her on the shoulder. You were very good Apa, she said. And you can thank me later.

Zara gave an inquisitive look, drew a question mark in the air with her long thin finger.

For bringing such an interesting man into our lives. The days would have been so dull.

Zara unlooped her arm and held her hand up. Bas, she mouthed without a sound, then clutched her throat.

You had fun, admit it Apa. Just admit it. He’s charismatic.

Zara quickened her pace and Sanya tried to grab her arm. Why are you always like this? Oh Khuda, it must be so exhausting to be you. You don’t give anyone even an inch!

Zara shrugged her off and kept walking.

Sanya stopped. Why? she asked softly but Zara had already turned the corner and been swallowed up by the dark shadows and the trees.

Their custom, each night before bed, was to have a cup of chai with Sanya sharing some ludicrous society story or spicy gossip and Zara responding with an exclamation conveyed entirely through her eyes alone. Now Sanya spent a few minutes on the garden chair outside, her breaths quick and uneasy. This was it. This was Apa. There was no amending her.

Inside, she found Zara in a corner chair, her nose in a book. She walked over, seized the book.

You’re so damn arrogant, Sanya said. Every now and then you come so close to the world of the living but always you turn your back. I give up. She shoved the book back in Zara’s hands and went to her room. She changed, got into bed and waited to hear Zara leave to go to her own room but the subtle click of the door handle never came.

The next morning Sanya woke up earlier than usual and found the window engulfed in a mist so thick it seemed as if the clouds had descended down to earth. She showered and dressed slowly, taking her time, running through her mind the words she would have to say to Zara. She thought of how Zara had made her promise, that she would not take advantage of her when she could not speak and how she had done precisely this the night before. She had willfully ambushed her Apa, cornered her, called her something she was not. Arrogant. Zara was not arrogant. Just fearful. Why? Sanya did not know exactly what tormented Zara but her sister was this way and now was not the time to ask her to change.

She knocked on Zara’s door. When there was no answer, she let herself in. But Zara wasn’t there and the bed hadn’t been slept in. Sanya stepped outside expecting her to be in the lawn chair with her book. No sign of Zara. Not there, not on her way to the dining hall where she asked a waiter, passing by. Abhi tak toh nahin aayein ma’am, he said.

There was an icy chill in the early morning air and Sanya pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders as she walked along the neat little path curving through the fruit trees and rose bushes. The European parties had already left for the day’s climb and other guests were yet to wake up. The birds too had finished their early morning chirping. The magnificent peaks in the distance were cast in a lilac hue that spread, ethereal, in all directions. A scene this immense, yet so still.

Sanya found herself on the other side of the estate, next to the small cottages. She went round the path and noticed her sister in a chair, Jalil pacing along the stone pathway. Zara, in her yellow shalwar kameez, a sheaf of papers in hand and lost, so lost in her reading that she did not look up. Her notebook and pen sat on a bench nearby. Sanya crossed the lawn towards them and Jalil smiled and pointed with his chin. Your Apa asked to read the scene with the ghazal singer.

Sanya took a seat, waited for her sister, who looked up, moments later, a solitary fugitive tear slipping down her cheek.

It’s beautiful, Zara said in a hoarse whisper. I’ve never read anything like it before.